


Angel of Mine

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 06:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Loosely inspired by Coldplay’s song “Fix You,” this fic was requested by a sweet anon. Hurt/comfort post SPN episode 13X23 Let the Good Time’s Roll (so … major season 13 finale spoiler if you haven’t seen it).





	Angel of Mine

Three months ago Dean said _yes_ to Michael. He did so without hesitation, untoward coercion, or opening the decision up to a democratic process in order to save Sam; because when it comes to protecting Sammy – forever a gawky little kid in his older brother’s view fated to the hunter’s life via a sinister amalgam of heredity, crappy circumstance, and demon blood – there’s no such thing as _no_.

Three months ago Lucifer burned for good; the long time stitch in the collective sides of humanity, Heaven, and Hell reduced to no more than a charred husk of flesh and bone haloed in a seared silhouette of wings – the blackened feathery ash still alive with hellfire in the aftermath of angelic entropy. On any other day, the death of the Devil would warrant a victory celebration the likes of which are found only in the manuscripts of ancient epic poetry – this was not _any other day_.

Three months ago everything _else_ aside from that win went sideways when Michael betrayed them exactly as Castiel warned Dean he would; the blue-eyed gravel-toned heavenly coal-mine canary’s song of lucidity chimed in distinct abhorrence to his best friend’s predilection for rash – oft times fatalistic – action with zero regard for how the repercussions will affect those he loves, those who love him, and, for that matter, the rest of the world.

And precisely three months ago to the very minute Castiel began the tortuous task of figuring out – in excruciating detail – all the ways he’s personally to blame for what happened. The failures notching the angel’s belt, or rather, _halo_ , prove to him his best has never been good enough; this latest disaster of losing Dean is no exception. Sleepless by divine design, endeavoring against fate to determine what he could have done differently, he tarries the perpetual waking hours reliving every minute of every day between raising Dean from perdition and the utterance of that heartbreaking _yes_. He does this regardless of the fact that none of you hold him responsible for the single syllable word that shattered all your lives; he maintains you weren’t _there_ – you didn’t just stand by, do nothing, and let it happen like he did.

Traipsing down the iron staircase into the warm glow of the bunker’s incandescent yellow illuminated central map room, lugging over your shoulder a lop-sided and lumpy leather gear bag laden with clandestinely commandeered church relics potentially useful in a fight against an archangel while sparing the soul of said archangel’s vessel, you see Castiel sunk in his self-sustained prison of regretful reverie in the library in the same seat you left him in when you departed days ago.

Shrugging, the duffle slips to the floor and strikes the concrete in a cacophony of clattering – many of these dusty old artifacts endured a millennia-long beating of the hands of time, perhaps even rode out a biblical flood or two, bore the occasional volcanic eruption, and withstood destruction through multiple world wars – you figure surely they can handle dropping a few feet to the floor when you’ve the more pressing issue of the abject object of your affection to attend to.

“Hey Cas,” you murmur the greeting and twist up the corner of your concerned pout into a passable smile.

Even if he were paying any heed to his surroundings and the soul freshly returned to them, he wouldn’t be convinced by the unpersuasive tic of muscle affecting your mien; transfixed by his own inner turmoil, he remains unmoved – sat there as a stony seraphim edifice sculpted in sorrow.

Your fingertips linger on the railing; fretful, they trace the edges of the cool wrought iron as you look on. Even from this distance, you clearly discern the briny trails of long-dried tears streaking his scruffy cheeks. Hewn haggard, his usually vibrant sapphire gaze dims to grey. He prods at his temples as, you suspect, he strains to summon some specific, and most certainly inconsequential, small element that might, _might_ , have altered the course of destiny; the patches of skin beneath his thumbs gleam raw red from the unremitting effort. He can’t begin to help you and Sam and Jack and Mary and the others fix this when _this_ is slowly killing him from the inside out.

As bad as the Dean situation gets, as impossible as saving the so-called _Sword of Michael_ seems, as unavoidable as the next apocalypse appears, for you, the worst thing – the one that sends cold shivers through your bones with a sense of dread, leaves you weak in the knees, and faint with futility – is not knowing how to help your angel. The feeling of helplessness exists as a leaden pit in your stomach; it sinks forever deeper, often sprouting thorns and somersaulting at inopportune moments such as when you settle in bed – whether he’s beside you or not – spiking in the seconds before you succumb to sheer exhaustion to twist tendrils of pain each reminding you of the seraph’s silent stoical suffering. There’s no sympathy card that quite telegraphs a sentiment adequate to console someone who lost his best friend to his unhinged and apocalyptically-inclined brother from an alternate universe.

Unable to bear the visual vestiges of his misery, you lower your regard to the contents topping the table. The original untranslated Enochian tomes Sam piled beside him for research – miraculously purloined from the secret archives of the Vatican by a juiceless Jack who’s mum as to how he obtained them – sit untouched. The oxygen seizes in your chest – four days, no, _five_ ; you left the bunker five days ago on your solo reliquary plundering quest. You’re sure if Cas moved his elbows from where they perch on the edge of the table there’d be an outline of dust serving up proof of your suspicion.

The spiked pit in your belly stirs, cartwheels, and stabs the lower lobe of a lung. The airy gush of a sob bursts forth from the wounded organ. Fingers slipping from the rail, you grab your side and manage to subdue the sound into a squeak of a sigh. You may not know what he needs, but you know you shouldn’t have left him alone. Not so soon. Not _ever_. The lines of his trench coat and anguished features blur; you wipe the fresh damp brimming over your own lashes at the sight of him like this.

Familiar fear clamps vice-like across your ribcage causing you to suck in a strained gasp of the stale air. Every time you see him he seems to shift further into the shadow of despondency. Every time you catch him roaming the dark realm of regret, it saps your own fortitude. Every day you worry you could lose your angel to that _empty_ place again; and maybe this time, fraught as he is by his own doubt, there won’t be any coming home for him from it.

Inhaling a bolstering breath, reasserting your stumbling strength with a sniffle, you stride toward him. “Castiel?” Mouse-like in lightness of touch, you slide your fingers into the chestnut curls of hair overlying his ear; you’re certain the speckling of silver frosting the soft brown locks in a swath from his temple is new.

The sometime blazing sapphire eyes blink heavily and resolve their startled focus on you. “Y/N, when did you get back?”

Massaging his scalp, kneading your fingertips across the sensitive nape of his neck, you stoop to kiss his cheek as you dance your caress to squeeze the tenseness afflicting his shoulders. “Just now.” Sliding behind him, you begin to squeeze and rub at the rigid knots of muscle with progressively increasing pressure.

“Oh,” he groans; the low tone vibrates through your hands and up the sinew of your arms. Thick-lashed lids flicker shut beneath your gentle ministrations as his head lolls forward. “I-I didn’t hear you come in.”

You bend to kiss the unruly ruff of his hair and murmur, “I know. You were thinking about what happened with Dean again. _Still_. Cas, you must know it’s not your fault. Even Sam-”

He stiffens and reaches up to still your fingers and your speech. “Y/N, don’t-”

“No, don’t _you_ shut me out,” you interrupt, voice rough with frustration and stifled tears. Shaking free his loose grip, you grab the seatback and swivel the chair to confront him.

He glances sideways, avoiding your gaze; a renewed glimmer of grief wets his lashes.

“I just meant-” Extending a hand, gruffness evaporating, you stroke his cheek in apology. “I don’t know how to help you. Please tell me how to help. It’s what people do when they care about each other. What they do when they love one another.”

Looking up, features furrowing against the flood of sorrow dampening the dark bags burdening his blues, he clutches at your wrists to pull you down into his lap.

You yield, willingly wilting into his warm embrace.

Catching you about the waist, he draws you near to hide his face in the hollow of your neck. Tears mist your skin as he mumbles into it, “I can’t be helped. Everything I do, it ends _wrong_.”

You snug him closer so the steady beat of your heart resounds reassurance with your words. “No matter what happens, you always, _always_ , try to do what’s right. That makes you a good man.”

Lifting his gaze, he peers into your face, earnest as he searches your expression for an honest answer. “And what kind of an angel does that make me?”

Wisp of an adoring smile tracing your lips, you don’t hesitate in replying, “Mine.” Fingers darting under the collar of his trench, you leverage his neck leaning in to pepper kisses to the salted skin of his solace shuttered lids. Resting your forehead to his, nuzzling his cheek, you whisper again, lest he forget, “ _Mine_.”


End file.
